


dream pack prompts

by ronanlunch



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Multi, the dream pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4160313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronanlunch/pseuds/ronanlunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>my dream pack short ficlets</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. -

Lazy fingers are weaving their way down his skin; swirling around soft nipples and navels; lingering on freckled shoulders, heavy eyelids, heaving lips; finding their way down the pale trail of hair; stopping right above his tan line.  
Swan is lost, so lost in the sensations that make his insides feel like static, that when there is a pause it takes him a few seconds before he returns to the surface, gasping for air.  
Glancing over, he sees that Prokopenko is next to him still, although his mind seems far away - eyes watching but not watching his fingers hovering right above that magical place. This has happened before, and Swan knows the solution. A sharp bite is all that is needed to bring him back to bed, to Swan, to hopefully continue what they’ve started. As his eyes refocus on the nude boy in front of him, his face turns into something sad, so endlessly sad, and there is a black hole inside Swan, threatening to devour them both. Swan fights it, pushing words out through his lips.  
“Why’d you stop, dude?”  
“Not sure K’d approve,” Prokopenko murmurs, his voice faint and weak and barely there.  
Of course - the endless frustration of Joseph Kavinsky. The black hole growls, aims for his heart. He is never sure he has one, except for moments like this.  
“Not sure I care.” There is bitterness in Swan’s voice as he continues. “He doesn’t own us, Proko. I’d kill him, I really would, if it would make you mine for real.”  
A shudder goes through Prokopenko then, and for a second his eyes glaze, but it is so quick that Swan can’t easily convince himself that it happened. Then, the boy smiles at him, wolfish, hungry, lethal - just the way Swan wants him most.  
“Kay then, if I can’t use my fingers, perhaps I can use my mouth.”  
Sinking back into the pillows, Swan lets himself go under as a hot, wet tongue plays lines down his length; lets his brain cloud over as taut lips surround him.


	2. crushes, the reason we exist and lipstick colours

proko was straddling jiang, holding his face still with one firm hand on his jaw, while the other was applying a generous amount of lipstick. “i’m telling you, man, bright red really works with your skin colour. no, it’s not too much.” jiang tried protesting again, but a firm look from proko made him shut up. a lipliner was used for the finishing touches, before proko leaned back. “perfect.” there was a small, content sigh before he used his thumb to smudge the lipstick, to jiang’s stifled protests. 

“that’s not really a good look on him, p,” swan commented, glancing distracted up from the tv show he was watching while letting his fingers play through the dark hair of the boy asleep in his lap. “your face isn’t really a good look on yo-” jiang bit back, interrupted by proko’s lips meeting his own, smudging the lipstick even more. “get a room.” swan was sounding positively hostile now, but the only response he got was two middle fingers directed towards him as the two boys continued kissing.

when proko moved down to jiang’s neck, leaving a trail of red over his skin, jiang nodded towards the sleeping boy. “when will you and lover boy get it on then?” swan’s eyes widened, furious hand movements demanding, begging, for jiang to shut up, but the other boy was to preoccupied with moaning loudly to notice, as proko licked at a particularly sensitive spot.

“no, but really,” proko leaned against jiang’s chest, breathless, and although swan wanted not to, he could see the not-as-discreet-as-intended hand stroking the other boy through his pants. “you’ve been crushing on the baby boy for, what, weeks now? time to do something about it, don’t you think?” jiang whispered in proko’s ear, a tongue occasionally lapping out and playing with his earlobe, and his eyes darkened even as they were locked with swan’s. he got up and pulled jiang with him, leaving swan with the sleeping boy with only a hasty “later” thrown over his shoulder. he turned to stare after them, half pleased, half longing. just then something stirred in his lap and skov yawned, “what were you talking about?”, stretched, his spine curving in a way that made swan’s mouth dry up. “nothing,” he said hastily, and skov’s hands came up, wrapping around swan’s neck, pulling him down and skov’s lips came up to almost meet his, hovering just out of reach and swan could not even catch his breath. skov smiled at him, lazily. “don’t lie to me, énna.”


	3. swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for self harm and suicidal ideation and self destructiveness

Possibly, Swan thought himself immortal. Possibly, his friends did not.

They had warned him the first time when a stray bullet grazed his ribs, but he just laughed, high on the fight, and refused to go to the hospital. It had left an impressive scar, but every finger that traced it couldn’t help but ponder the transience of the boy under them.

They had warned him again when a fist had left the right side of his face bloody and battered, and Kavinsky had found him half dead on the pavement. They had taken him to the hospital then, rushing through empty Henrietta streets, and if Swan cried when his nose healed perfectly straight again, no one commented on it.

They had warned him as late as last week, when he wrapped his car around the old oak down the road, but he walked out of it unharmed and didn’t eat for two days after. No one was allowed to touch him, he flinched at every sound and laughed madly at every attempt of an intervention.

“I’d miss you,” Skov told him one night. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” Swan just turned away, the scar on his side reflecting the moonlight and the sight of it made Skov feel sick.

No one had warned him this time. It was such a small thing, a confrontation of a rivalling crew whose presence in the streets had become a little too noticeable. It was such a small thing, almost nothing, but they all knew, when the others turned and ran, that it would change everything.  
“He did it himself,” they’d later explain. “Fucking psycho, grabbed the fucking handle and pulled it up. I swear he was grinning.”  
He wasn’t grinning when Jiang reached him. He was holding the knife in, mouth slack and the pain must have tuned everything out, or maybe there was nothing, cause he didn’t react when his fingers were gently pried off, didn’t react when Proko, in the chaos, got him into the car, just kept his gaze down, as if to keep watch and make sure nothing escaped from the glistening wound.

“Maybe I’ll wait for you,” he had said and he had looked almost normal for a second, and then the droning in their ears became unbearable.


	4. prokopinsky

The TV was flickering silently, throwing shadows on the wall behind the couch, but Prokopenko had no idea what was showing. All of his attention was focussed on this: Kavinsky was watching him, his eyes leaving mark on skin, and Proko was acutely aware and also trying very hard not to meet his gaze. There was a possibility that he was squirming under the weight, but he hoped not. Fuck, that would be embarrassing.

“Hey, assface,” Kavinsky whispered, suddenly all up in Proko’s private space, and he winced. Definitely embarrassing. “Anything the matter?”

Lips were grazing his skin now, dusting softly over the hair at the nape of his neck, the sensitive area behind his ear, and he could feel himself soften, could feel his body lean in after Kavinsky’s touch, mold itself to his angles. With difficulty, he pulled away from the touch, making sure to get lots of space between his body and the other.

“Everything’s fine.” He still didn’t meet Kavinsky’s eyes, but in his side vision he could see him shrugging, fishing his phone out from between the pillows.

Proko frowned. Everything wasn’t okay, and that shit knew it. But of course he wouldn’t lower himself to actually continue probing - that would mean he cared.

Kavinsky seemed to be enjoying the content of his phone. There was a tension knotting up Proko’s muscles, tighter with every snort sounding from the other side of the couch.

“Texting Lynch?” he asked when he couldn’t take it any more. The confirming grunt made his stomach coil, his shoulders shoot up, and his mind turn to murder.

Glancing over, Kavinsky laughed -“Jealous?”- and in that moment Prokopenko hated him, he really did. He really really really did. There was no part of him that didn’t want to hurt the other boy the way he was hurting Proko, but Proko wasn’t delusional - he didn’t have that kind of power. He didn’t have anything.

“He’s trying to replace me, you know?” His voice was pathetic - insecure, needy, like he was nothing without Kavinsky’s constant validation. And he knew it was stupid, he should leave, he should walk away, he should do something to remove himself from the situation, but he couldn’t, there was nothing left in his body so instead he wrapped in on himself, hugging the hoodie closer.

When he looked up next, Kavinsky and his phone was gone.


End file.
